Friday, December 6, 2013

I am the product of a classical education. My mother, an
English teacher, and my father, an attorney, instilled in me a respect for
education that I embraced in my youth, fought like hell against in my
adolescence and rediscovered in adulthood. I realized my calling as a teacher
while on a backpacking trip through Europe shortly after graduating college. At
the time, I had $20,000 in student loan debt, a degree in English, and
virtually zero career prospects upon my return from abroad (see reference to
English degree). As we wandered the streets of Prague, Florence, and Paris, I
found myself unable to avoid the pull of Kakfa, Dante, and Hemingway; these men
had defined my understanding of these cities, and I talked Brian’s ear off
about their influence on modern culture. In those moments, my desire to teach
was born.

Of course, upon my return I had begun to sing a different
tune and thought that I could “do better” than teach. But despite a top-notch
education from The University of Texas and a set of useful skills, I couldn’t find a job. Like others from
the everyone-gets-a-trophy generation, I expected the offers to come streaming
in. Moreover, I was told that my college degree would be worth more than the
debt I acquired to earn it. With limited options and a waning confidence, I
decided to revisit the notion of teaching and applied to Texas State's
graduate program in education. I earned my teaching certificate and Master’s degree
in Secondary Education two years later and entered the classroom still wet
behind the ears, but passionate as all get-out. I fell into my role rather
seamlessly. I found I actually enjoyed puzzling through discipline problems
and, even though I had practically no idea what I was doing that first year, I
loved my job.

Now, in my 7th year in the classroom, the only
thing that’s changed is the expertise that comes with experience. I don’t feel
like a braggart admitting that I’m good at my job. I’m not perfect, but I enjoy
it and I forge relationships with my students that are real and based on a
mutual respect for each other and the subject matter. Most importantly, we have
a good time and we learn, read, and discuss. And I’m fortunate to teach on a
campus that focuses on real education, not just test scores and school data.

But yesterday in class, my eyes were opened to something
I’ve known all along: despite the aforementioned positives, I’m beginning to
see the perils of traditional education. It began innocently enough. We’re in
the process of reading Antigone, the
classical Greek drama about a young woman who risks her life for a morally just
cause. To tie in poetry and help them relate to the greater themes within the
work, I decided to spend some time listening to and annotating protest music.
While discussing Pink Floyd’s message of anti-establishment in “Another Brick
in the Wall Part II” I described the band’s beef with traditional education and
the notion that school is purely a stepping stone for one’s career. I explained
this in the context of mid-century British prep schools, not realizing that
everything I said was true of our own system of education until a student told
me as much.

Monday, November 18, 2013

I’ve heard it said that it takes a village to raise a child.
In our case, it takes a village to raise a family. And this family has one hell
of a village behind us. Last weekend was Quinn’s first Buddy Walk, an awareness
and fundraising event held in Houston each November. I spent much of this fall
organizing Quinn’s team and sending out slightly obnoxious Facebook posts in an
attempt to raise money on his behalf. The result was successful. We raised over
$7600 in Quinn’s name and were the 6th highest fundraising team in
the city, which is no small feat! We couldn’t have done this without the help
of our generous friends and family, with a special thanks to our incredible
parents, Larry and Patti Mennes, who personally matched every donation from Larry’s
employees. We wouldn’t have raised nearly as much as we did without their help.

When it came time for the walk itself, we had over 60 people
on our team in support of Quinn. His teachers at the daycare made posters and
came out in droves for our little man, and many of my own coworkers walked with
us to show their support. Even my dear friend Laura, who was terribly sick at
the time, braved her own illness to meander through the crowds out of love for
Quinn. The Stratford National Honor Society students walked with us for their
service hours and, even though I don’t know any of these seniors, they all
introduced themselves to me and made a point of meeting Quinn (and fawning over
his cuteness). Nearing the end of the one-mile walk through downtown Houston, I
came upon Stratford’s Junior Girls, many of whom were my students last year.
They watched last fall as I coped with the news of Quinn’s diagnosis and
celebrated with me when he was born during finals week. They were all there
with signs and banners, cheering Quinn’s name just before the finish line. At
this point I didn’t even try to hide my tears.

To say that this event was moving would be a gross
understatement. I am beyond grateful for these people, this village that
supports my family. Their love and encouragement sustain me and create an
environment for Quinn that is inclusive and celebrates his unique qualities.
Because the more I learn about Down syndrome, the more I see it as a gift. For
the people in my life to recognize this too means that our family is erasing
stereotypes and breaking down the barriers that he would have faced even a
decade ago. But most importantly, it means that we are loved, and love is all
we need.

Monday, November 4, 2013

October has always been my favorite month of the year.
Temperatures are finally bearable in Texas, football season is in full swing,
and pumpkin-flavored everything is in high supply. But this October, much like
last year’s, kicked my ass. My kids were sick virtually the entire month, which
meant that Brian and I took turns waking up in the middle of the night caring for
unhappy children and, in turn, passing illnesses back and forth between each
other. I’ve managed to deplete my already small stock of sick days and didn’t
sleep more than 4 hours at a time for weeks.

I’ve approached this time as a slump; I assumed that we’re
just going through a rough patch in terms of illnesses and doctor’s visits, but
the more I think about the past month, the more I realize just how routine
these circumstances have become. This is not a slump. This is our new reality.

Gamma and PopPop are life-savers.

An average week in our house consists of at least one
illness, a few meltdowns, physical therapy, and a visit to one specialist or
another. Add this to an already-busy schedule of two full-time jobs (plus
tutoring and responding to student and parent emails, which is a full-time job
in and of itself) and carting the kids to and from daycare and everywhere in
between. It goes without saying that I’m feeling a little spread thin. And
because of our full plates, we’ve been terrible friends to the very people that
can keep us sane. We’ve flaked and double-booked and avoided social outings
because, at the end of the long week, we desperately need to rest and recharge.
I’ve become the very mom I always loathed; the mom who uses her kids and their
germs as an excuse. It’s not that I’m trying to avoid the birthday parties or the
barbecues. Deep down I know they’d be good for all of us. But I sincerely don’t
want your child to come down with the funk that’s prevented us from operating
on even a marginal level of sanity all week. And, full disclosure, I’m tired. I’m
so bone-tired that I can barely move on Saturday, but I still have to do the
grocery shopping and laundry and house-cleaning that I couldn’t do during the
week because of all the aforementioned duties.

Where can I pick up my Mom of the Year award?

Of all the families I know who are raising a child with Down
syndrome, ours is the only one with two full-time working parents (to be fair, one of these families is currently looking for work. If you know of anything in the Houston area, please let me know). It never
really hit me until now, but I’m suddenly realizing that these parents aren’t staying
home out of choice, but rather out of necessity. There just aren’t enough hours
in the day to get it all done. Between therapy, specialist visits, surgeries
(we’ve got another this spring), and frequent illnesses, caring for Quinn alone
is a full-time job, never mind that we have another child that is demanding of
our attention. And so we’ve bounced around the idea of me staying home with the
boys a few times. It would mean saving the $1300/month we spend on daycare
costs (which is incredibly affordable for the quality of care they receive). Quinn
could attend The Rise School, a preschool for children with Down syndrome whose
hours and location are logistically impossible for us at the moment. We’ve
heard nothing but amazing things about this program, but it’s an hour commute
each day during the hours I’m at work. Leaving my job would make this a possibility
(even though the aforementioned $1300 would go towards Quinn’s tuition alone,
we would find a way to make it work). And it would mean that I could provide
Quinn with the attention and developmental strategies that are so important for
him right now and schedule doctor’s appointments before 4pm.

But in the end, there’s too much at stake to make it
possible. Money would be insanely tight. If I leave my job, there goes our
insurance and the boys’ transfer opportunity to some of the best public schools
in the state of Texas. But what it really comes down to is that I love my job.
I can’t, even for a moment, imagine myself out of the classroom.

We’re at an impasse. Our choices are limited, so we’re
forced to make the most of a difficult situation. And the end result of our
full plates is a loss of all the things that could keep us sane. This post isn’t
looking for your pity. It’s the last thing I need. But I guess I am looking for
your understanding. It’s why I missed that very important thing you planned. It’s
why I haven’t called. It’s why I’ve put on 10 pounds since June. Forgive me my
trespasses. It’s going to be touch-and-go for a while, but we’ll make it back
to the land of the living. And when we do, make sure that you have a drink in
hand for me. I’m going to need it.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Here's another guest post, this time from my friend, Ashley. When I received Quinn's diagnosis, I immediately turned to the internet to read stories from parents who were going through similar situations. In the process, I came across Ashley's blog and quickly realized that she lived just a few miles north of Houston. I sent her an email and she responded immediately, both of us excited to have found one another. I continued to talk with Ashley throughout my pregnancy while also keeping myself updated on her adorable son, Eli, who was born in April of 2012. Since we met last fall, Ashley and her husband Barry adopted beautiful baby Ruby and are (surprise!) expecting another son this spring! Here is their story:

I remember the day we confirmed our pregnancy with Eli. I was standing
in the middle of my kindergarten classroom when the phone rang. I had
been waiting all day to hear that sweet sound. Our reproductive
endocrinologist was on the other end and I could hear the smile in his
voice. "Mrs. Newman, you are pregnant!" He went on to give me some lab
instructions and tell me my odds of a full term delivery (we had already
beat the odds, using IVF to get pregnant). I just stood there in the
middle of my kindergarten class with tears rolling down my face. This
was what we had waited two years for. Finally a baby.
Our pregnancy was complicated: bed rest, bleeding, doubt and fear. But
our little miracle stayed strong with us and soon we began to believe we
would bring home a baby in May 2012. During my first trimester, all testing and ultrasounds looked good. I was released to my regular OB at 12 weeks. During my second trimester, some routine thyroid bloodwork was
accidentally run as AFP testing instead. The day before our winter
break, my doctor called to let me know that our son had screened
positive for Down syndrome. To say that I laid on the floor and cried would be giving myself too
much credit. I did not react well and looked for reassurance from my
doctors immediately.

Monday, October 7, 2013

In honor of Down Syndrome Awareness Month,I've decided to share with you a series of guest entries by some of the amazing people we've met along our journey with Quinn. These posts are intended to help share the positivity that our kids bring us each and every day, while also eliminating some of the stereotypes attached to the chromosomally-enhanced. Each of our stories is as different as our individual children, yet the incredible joy they bring to our families is the same. The first post is by my friend, Catie. Soon after receiving Quinn's diagnosis, we were given Catie's contact information. She was teaching music at Atticus's preschool and her daughter, Mara, was born with Down syndrome the previous year. It wasn't long before I learned that her job was a new one; just the year before she was an English teacher at Stratford High School, which is coincidentally MY job. When her husband passed the bar exam, she was able to take on part-time work and devote more of her schedule to her amazing kids, thus opening up a position in my current department. Whether I was hired to replace her position or not, we'll never know, as I was one of four new teachers in the English department last year. But I am certain that she and her family will be our lasting friends, as we have far more in common than the extra chromosome that Mara and Quinn possess, though that last commonality will connect us forever. She has been a priceless source of support and information, and meeting Mara for the first time instilled in me a new, positive outlook on what Down syndrome would be like for our family.

Here's Catie's story:

This is my Mara, affectionately known as Mara B (for
Broussard, her middle name) or simply, the diva. She's my second child
and my only daughter. She came screaming into the world on the
afternoon of May 27, 2011, with a thick mop of black hair and surprise!
An extra chromosome--the 21st one. Not exactly the Showcase Showdown,
but I was assured it was the "Cadillac of chromosomal disorders," which I
can assure you meant next to nothing to this gal, almost immediately
post-partum. There had been no indication during my pregnancy that she
might have Down syndrome, so we were pretty shell-shocked. My husband
and I both had outdated ideas of what it meant to have Down syndrome, so
a series of worst-case scenarios ran through our heads--everything from
worrying about day care to kissing our carefree days of empty nesting
retirement goodbye. Instead of simply rejoicing over the birth of our
much-awaited-for baby girl, we were thrown into a panic after being
given a diagnosis and leaving the hospital with a list of imperative
appointments with various specialists ranging from cardiologists to
hematologists, geneticists, and ophthalmologists. Those first
heart-wrenching moments and

Friday, September 20, 2013

I don't know you, yet I feel that we are connected. I remember walking in your shoes and fearing for the future. I remember feeling so alone, then finding others who were experiencing the same emotions, and it helped me cope with the news that you are dealing with today. And so I write this letter in the hope that you find it. I write in the hope that you know you are not alone.

One year ago today, we received Quinn's Down syndrome diagnosis. I sat down in front of the computer and told the world our story in a post that makes me cringe when I read it now. In the year that's passed, I've had a chance to look back on those raw emotions and remind myself that I didn't know then what I know now. And most importantly, I hadn't met Quinn yet, whose very existence is my greatest accomplishment. He represents my courage in a time of doubt, patience in a time of chaos, and the unyielding strength of a tiny human that I took for granted.

Quinn's sweet face on the day we learned of his pleural effusion

But I didn't know this then. I was terrified, isolated, and grief-stricken. I found myself unable to celebrate this impending life, both out of fear and anger. I closed the nursery door and hid the baby clothes for months, embarrassed at myself in the process, but knowing that their very presence would send me into a tailspin of grief. I knew that I would love Quinn when he arrived, but this seemed so very far away from reality in the weeks following his diagnosis, and as time marched on, we faced new problems that made me fear becoming attached to someone who might not survive. I was an actor in those days, playing a role I remembered well from the time I was pregnant with Atticus. I knew how to answer the questions everyone loves to ask a pregnant woman: "It's a boy. He's due in January. He's my second." But those answers always felt like they deserved an asterisk at the end: "He has Down syndrome. The doctors found a pleural effusion. He might not make it." Of course, I never shared these footnotes. I gave the people what they wanted because no one knows how to reply to unexpected news like that. I joked and traded stories with other pregnant women while holding back a searing jealously because their baby would be "normal" and mine wouldn't; these women never had worst-case scenario conversations with their OBGYNs. While I was researching Early Childhood Intervention, Medicaid Waivers, and special needs preschools, these happy pregnant women were buying baby clothes and painting the nursery with stars in their eyes. I woke up at 3am almost every night, unable to fall back asleep because I was convinced I didn't have the skills to raise a child with special needs. In those months before Quinn was born, I was lost.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Who knew that a seemingly-mundane trip to Target could yield such entertaining results? Atticus has been making really great choices lately, from becoming fully potty-trained to displaying stellar behavior when returning to school this week, so I decided to reward him with a new toy. The trip to the store provided so much insight into my little man's personality, that I just had to share this series of events with you.

It all began on the short drive over. I tuned into one Pandora station or another without really thinking and pulled out of the driveway. Now, I should note that Atticus loves music. If I forget to turn the radio on, even for a short trip, he will demand to hear "songs." His latest favorite is "Lakehouse" by Of Monsters and Men, because it's simple enough for him to recognize and the refrain, "where we are, where we are" is easy for him to sing along to. Well, an Of Monsters and Men song came on Pandora and Atticus said, "Mommy, I want the other song like this." Not knowning what he meant, he started singing "where we are, where we are" until it clicked. I know that this may not seem like a magic moment, but those of you that know us well know that there are few things in our lives as important and influential as music. And for a just-turned-three-year-old to recognize the similarities between two songs by the same artist...let's just say it's impressive. And as soon as I started the song, he recognized the guitar riff at the intro and immediately thanked me. That would have been enough to blog about, really. I was immensely proud of this guy, especially when he started singing along in key, but this was just the beginning. I linked a live performance (on Seattle's KEXP) of the song below so you can check it out. It's pretty catchy.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

We've known for a while that Quinn was likely going to have surgery to remove his enlarged adenoids, but today we got the official green light to go ahead with the procedure next Friday. Anyone who's met Quinn knows that he's a NOISY little man. Because his adenoids are so large, it's blocking his airway and the breaths he takes are rattly, strained, and snotty. The surgery itself is remarkably routine. Even though our dude is only 8 months old, it's an outpatient procedure with a quick 2-4 day recovery (if his tonsils were also being removed, it would be longer). Nevertheless, I find myself slightly terrified simply because I think that's what parents are supposed to feel when their babies go under the knife. But this worry is a relatively new experience for me, a learned behavior.

When Atticus was born, I didn't experience the fear that most first-time parents feel. Perhaps it was my years as a nanny and preschool teacher, but caring for a newborn didn't frighten me. I knew that mothers had been tending to their young somewhat successfully since the dawn of humanity and that it's actually never been easier or safer to be a parent. Diaper, change, feed, try not to drop them on their heads, repeat. It was straightforward enough that once Brian overcame the jitters of the first few days, we were passing the kid back and forth like a football with one hand. We weren't the type to call the pediatrician at 3am because munchkin had the sniffles and when it came to babyproofing, we didn't. Of course, we put the bleach and household cleaners in the higher cabinets and pushed the knife block to the back of the countertop, but that was about it. And you know what? He survived! Sure, he bumped his head on the coffee table a few times and probably poked his eye once or twice with sticks he found in the backyard (Atticus had a thing for sticks), but he came out of the clumsy stages of toddlerhood relatively unscathed. And Brian and I enjoyed parenting instead of worrying about every little microbe that could potentially sicken him, every hazard that could break his leg.

Friday, July 12, 2013

It's been a busy summer in the Mennes family and it's only mid-July. Between a trip to the cabin on Lake Michigan to see family, to a second honeymoon on Isla Mujeres in Mexico, to a spontaneous daytrip to Galveston last weekend and every fun celebration in between, there hasn't been a dull moment yet. And I love that we're instilling a genuine curiosity and sense of adventure in our children from their earliest days. May they quickly learn that a monotonous life is a wasted one...

It is only in adventure that some people succeed in knowing themselves - in finding themselves.-Andre Gide

Friday, May 31, 2013

I’ve sat in front of my computer screen debating just how to
start this topic, or whether I even should
because I’m about to ruffle some feathers. But this blog isn’t here to
magically align with everyone’s beliefs, and I refuse to shy away from controversy
just to avoid offense, so I’ve decided to power through and get my thoughts
down here. It’s not to make myself feel better, but to educate the public about
what I see as an emerging civil rights issue, and one that affects my family
deeply. You see, I am and always have been pro-choice,but everything I thought I knew and believed in regarding a woman’s
right to choose has been turned on its head since entering the Down syndrome
community. I know to most outsiders this may seem like a strange connection,
but abortion and Ds are closely intertwined and becoming even more so with the
advent of noninvasive prenatal testing.

When I was pregnant with both my boys, I remember being
offered first trimester screening, which included blood tests and ultrasounds
to check for chromosomal abnormalities. Because we wanted as little intervention
as possible, we declined these tests and continued the pregnancies as normal.
Had I done these screenings, they would have likely raised a red flag with
Quinn and I would have been referred for more tests. For most women, this would
be an amniocentesis or chorionic villus sampling (CVS), both of which are
invasive, painful, and slightly risky. They do, however, carry a rather high
accuracy rate in detecting chromosomal anomalies like Down syndrome or other
trisomies. Since we opted out of the first screening, we never detected
anything unusual until Quinn’s anatomy scan at 20 weeks. This is when the
ultrasound technician noticed his slightly enlarged kidneys and referred us to
a genetic counselor.

from parentweb.com

Our GC, who was amazing by the way (this is worth
mentioning because many of them are not…I’ll get to that later), introduced us
to a test called Maternit21. It was a ground-breaking, noninvasive blood test
that analyzed fetal DNA in the mother’s blood for the presence of extra
chromosomes. It was over 99% accurate and carried no risk to mother or baby,
unlike an amnio or CVS. We agreed and waited for the results, which you all
know came back positive for Down syndrome. At this point, we were devastated,
an emotion that I feel somewhat silly for feeling in retrospect. But we were
new to this world and had preconceived and outdated notions about what Ds could
mean. And we were left with an agonizing decision: do we terminate this
pregnancy?

In the end, we chose to carry our little man to term, but
not entirely for reasons you would expect. To terminate a pregnancy at 24 weeks
(which was where we were once all diagnostic results were in) meant an
induction of labor and a full vaginal delivery. I would see my baby and he would
not be breathing. And it would be my fault. I knew that would be an image that
I could never erase from my mind, even if I lived to be 102. So I chose life.
It was my choice.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Being a parent makes me mediocre at everything, even
parenting. It’s something I’ve known for a while, but this is the first time I’m
making the confession public. And I would argue most parents aren’t very good
at much else either, because being a parent is tough, especially a working
parent, and once the day is over and the kids are tucked in bed, all I really
want to do is drink a glass of wine in my pajamas and watch mindless TV. Being
a parent also makes me a vidiot. And a late-night drinker (although “late-night”
for me is 9pm). I guess my attempt to be my best self takes a backseat to making
sure my kids’ needs are met; it doesn’t really bother me much because I am
happy and my children are in good, albeit sometimes frazzled hands.

So why is it that we parents feel the need to hide our
realities from the world, especially social media? Check any mom’s Instagram or
Facebook feed, including my own, and it looks like we are running a regular
Montessori. The kids are smiling and sun-kissed. There’s paint and legos and
fresh fruit dripping from their chins. We play guitar and sing songs and frolic
in the mud with abandon, only to curl up together on the couch for a midday
weekend nap while the turntable plays Cat Stevens records and we read Where the Wild Things Are in monster
voices. Hilarity ensues. All is right with the world. And the photos we capture
are as grainy as our memories of these moments will be, because they are only a
small and somewhat dishonest slice of the day.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Five years ago today, I married the greatest man on Earth. Despite
the cliché, Brian has genuinely earned this title again and again in the past
ten years that I have known him. I am one of the lucky women who married her best friend. And while we have our moments of stress, disagreements, or the feeling that all romance has disappeared with the advent of parenting, we are still madly in love with one another. Those days of hours-long phone conversations, flowers, and fireworks have been replaced by a steady comfort that I think we both prefer. It can be exhausting to feel so passionate all the time. Our rock-solid relationship has become second nature. We know each other so well that I can finish his sentences and he can read my feelings with a quick glance. And our dreams for the future together are founded upon dedication, compromise, and a good sense of humor. Brian is good at making me laugh, especially when I'm taking life far too seriously. And this year has been the strongest test of our marriage thus far; fortunately, we survived it relatively unscathed. Brian is a devoted father, loving husband, and
all-around amazing man. Here’s why:

Monday, April 15, 2013

Oh boy. Our oldest son has been quite a challenge lately. To call Atticus strong-willed is akin to calling a grizzly bear soft and cuddly. It's been one melt-down after another lately and we're at our wits' end. In one of my most recent attempts to escape the screaming by perusing the internet, I came across the latest viral sensation, Reasons my Son is Crying. This tumblr features photos with a caption explaining all the silly, inane reasons one woman's son can't control his tiny emotions and, for me, it reads like a diary entry.

So I was inspired to create my own "Reasons my Son is Crying" with Atticus. And before you call CPS for gross negligence of my child's emotional needs, I do understand why young children have trouble
keeping their very powerful feelings in check and we work with him to find appropriate outlets for his anger and/or sadness. But if I don't make light
of it, I'm liable to lose my mind before he grows out of this phase. So enjoy the photos and explanations of his many tantrums and admit that you want 12 just like him...

Saturday, March 30, 2013

To understand the story of the Bulldog Shirt, you first need to know a little bit about the person who gave it to us. Justin is one of our favorite people in the entire world. We met back in college and we became fast friends. We share a love of music and food (in fact, we joke that we're culinary soulmates because our tastes are nearly identical), and he's always quick to offer help when help is needed. When Brian and I got married five years ago, a huge storm blew through during the reception. Justin had the genius idea to ask our DJ, Car Stereo Wars, to play "Footloose" and turn the speakers into the courtyard so we could all dance barefoot in the rain. Now, whenever anyone asks about our wedding, we show them the pictures of the entire party getting down in a downpour while wearing their Sunday best. It was a magical moment, all thanks to Justin. Over the years he's surprised us with concert tickets and fine dining dinner dates, allowing Brian and I to enjoy rare moments of solitude while he watched Atticus (and "Yo Gabba Gabba"). So when the bulldog shirts came in the mail for Christmas, I knew they were from him. Because in addition to being an outstanding guy and babysitter extraordinaire, he's also an incredible photographer and designer, and has his finger on the pulse of all things cool.

Friday, February 15, 2013

You've been a good sport the last few months, kid. I've got to hand it to you: you've shared your time well with your new baby brother and haven't tried to smother him with a pillow once. You've even gone so far as to comfort him when he cries. This shows an empathy and kindness that I would guess many 2-year-olds are lacking. Keep this up. These qualities will get you much farther in life than most are willing to admit, and it makes the world a better place.

My admiration of these qualities has encouraged me to write you a letter that you will hopefully read in the future (you can't read yet, sorry. While you are a genius child, you are only two. Give it another year). I want to tell your future self who you were and how this translated into the dreams we have for you. You likely won't remember much from this age, so I'm offering to document it for you. I know. I'm an awesome mom. Please remember this as your angst-ridden 17-year-old self reads this. I'm sure this teenage version of you is glowering over a recent decision I made to ruin your life, so here's documented proof that I love you, even if I don't want you hanging out with that kid who's repeating 10th grade for the third time and smells like a Phish concert. But I digress...

Here's a glimpse at who you are at two-and-a-half and why it makes you awesome:

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Yesterday was a big day. Quinn had a follow-up appointment at his ENT, we had our evaluation for Early Intervention (EI) services, and I locked him in the car and had to call the Fire Department to come and rescue him. Yep. That happened.

Let's start with the ENT. Quinn passed the initial hearing screening that all newborns get in the hospital before being discharged, but because he received antibiotics in the NICU, which can sometimes cause hearing loss, I needed to schedule a follow-up test to verify that all was still well. Last week, I bundled him up and drove 45 minutes to Sugarland, where he was given the quick screen once more and told that he failed, which would make the longer test we were planning to take that day a big waste of time, as he would invariably fail that one too. They suspected fluid build-up and referred me to a different ENT closer to home (though not after charging me a $50 copay for my 2-minute visit). So yesterday we went for our follow-up and waited 45 minutes before being seen by a doctor, who tried to look in his teeny-tiny ear canals, told us she couldn't see anything and asked that we come back in a month (and, of course, charged us $50 for her time, even though it was mine that was so carelessly wasted). And go figure, Quinn was ready to eat right when we left. I figured we would be home in 15 minutes, so I strapped him back in his car seat and trudged to the car, $100 poorer and without any real information about my now-screaming guy's hearing except to learn that we would need to wait it out.

By the time I got to the car, I gave up on trying to wait to feed him and broke out the bottle while standing next to the car in the garage. The owner of the car parked next to mine started to back out, nearly running me over (I don't think she saw me), so I closed Quinn's door to get out of her way, leaving my purse, keys, and Quinn inside.

Monday, January 28, 2013

It's hard to believe Quinn has been with us for 6 weeks already. Despite the ease suggested in my last post, it really has been a blur of sleep-deprivation and a reorganization of priorities. Having two kids is much more challenging than one, and I would be lying if I didn't admit my concerns for the future. We know that Quinn will face delays as the months continue, and this honeymoon period of he's-just-like-every-other-baby will end. It scares me, especially as Atticus continues to grow and mature with each passing day. How do I balance excitement for one with concern for the other and vice versa? How do I manage shifting expectations? How do I find the time to maintain my own sanity? And how do I do all of that while simultaneously working a full-time job and caring for the basic needs of my family? Maybe it's the isolation of maternity leave and the fact that I'm spending lots of time caring for Quinn while the rest of my family and friends live their lives as usual, but these questions have been weighing heavily on my mind lately.

The reality is that the answers will come in time, one day at a time, so there's no sense in worrying now. Instead, now is the time to celebrate this little munchkin and his incredibly blue eyes, which I'm seeing more and more of each day. It only feels right to share them with you, too...

Friday, January 25, 2013

I know I owe you guys a post and I've spent the last few weeks trying to come up with something meaningful to share. I want to prevent this blog from becoming a series of journal entries because, let's be honest, that would bore the pants off most people, especially me. And so I haven't said much because I really don't have anything to say. Quinn is about as typical as a baby can be: he eats, he sleeps, he poops, he's learning to smile (that last one is worth celebrating, but I've yet to catch it on camera or even determine if it's a real smile or just gas-related. I'm going with the former). That said, he rarely cries and gives me little trouble. Atticus was the same way, so all my fellow moms can go ahead and curse my good fortune now. I will admit that I'm not familiar with the stressful, sleepless existence that most parents of newborns experience. Not that we don't have 3am feedings and diaper changes; it's just a little easier to handle than the picture I was painted before having a baby. I know, you hate me. That's fine. I promise to share the pure chaos that is chasing a toddler when he learns to walk. Now THAT is hard. Come to think of it, it still is. Atticus often ignores important instructions that are intended to keep him safe and keep my living room floor from becoming his next fingerpainting canvas. But those stories are for a different post entirely...

Sunday, January 6, 2013

I grabbed my camera the other day to shoot some pictures of the kiddos and got some pretty great shots. Granted, I had to bribe Atticus with the promise of cookies, but I've learned that parenting two kids requires me to completely abandon my ideal behaviorist tactics and take the easy route sometimes. Good thing I did, because Atticus is way cuter when he's smiling.